A Physical Stuggle of Sorts
by graverobinmurdoc
Summary: 2-D is a man born in the wrong body, and his abusive relationship with Murdoc must be negotiated both within himself and with the bassist. This fic has adult themes that may be triggering. It includes my headcanon 2-D as transgendered, as well as intense emotional/psychological themes of self-harm, abuse, drugs, male pregnancy, violence, chaotic relationships and obscene language.
1. 1) Too Close

**Pairing: Murdoc x FTM!2-D**

**Disclaimers: I do NOT own Gorillaz. Additionally, this fic has adult themes that may be triggering. It includes my headcanon 2-D as transgendered, as well as intense emotional/psychological themes of self-harm, abuse, drugs, male pregnancy, violence, chaotic relationships and obscene language. Please do not read if you cannot handle these things or just do not wish to read them—I assure you there are plenty of other wonderful fics out there that you'll prefer J Told from 2-D's POV and Murdoc's intermittently—I hope it's not too confusing! Other than that, ENJOY~**

**2-D:**

The heavy stench of cigarettes and mildew hangs in the air as you tilt your head back to exhale a long stream of smoke upward toward the ceiling. It is littered with cracks, yellowing and peeling as you peer at it through your azure-colored hair, hanging in wisps in front of your pitch-black, sunken eyes. A sigh never feels as good without the nicotine-laced smoke, weaving intricate patterns as it drifts through the room, slowly disappearing into naught. The shirt around you feels too tight, and you tug at its front in frustration, grasping at it's flimsy material firmly with your hand, stretching it forward, away from your chest that you despise so earnestly.

Tobacco may be ruining your lungs, but so is the incredible tightness of anything you wear wrapped snugly around your frame to conceal parts of your anatomy that feel just so out of place you want to scream. With an artful flick of the fingers, you ash the cigarette onto the ground, before bringing it back to your chapped lips and inhaling deeply, then exhaling yet another tendril of smoke. The lighting is dim, a single dull lamp hanging from the fan, whose blades, as they move quickly in never-ending circles, lull you into a numb trance, your back resting against the soft cushion of the age-old sofa. That's when you hear a knock. You know he won't wait though, and seconds later he standing in the doorframe, a bit intoxicated, grinning as always when in such a state. "Hey, Faceache," he utters, taking another swig of whiskey, a bit dribbling slowly down his chin. You look up and down his tall, slender frame, the sleek black hair a bit wonky, the oddly-shaped nose, as the grin reveals chipped, crooked, yellowing teeth. "Hey, Muds," you respond in a semi-amiable manner—the best you can manage—along with a crooked half-smile. Your cigarette rests on your lip in the gap created by missing teeth. And suddenly he slams the whiskey bottle down on the floor, glass shattering everywhere, but he doesn't take notice and slumps down onto the sofa beside you—

Too close. You cannot be this close to anyone. Not as you are now. You shudder as his body brushes against yours, the stench of alcohol and cigarettes heavy on his breath and he leans in to whisper something you can't understand. You try to scoot away—he can't know who you really are, so you must avoid bodily contact. And that's when he throws his arms around you, gripping your shirt, and staring stupidly at you with dilated pupils. So he's high, too. Your heart panics as he leans into your neck, nuzzling against it. "Muds…ey! Stop that, would ya? Sod off!" You try to push him away, and that's when he hits you. The blow strikes you in the ribs, then next in the jaw, and your lip splits painfully, a slow trickle of blood springs forth. It's fine, he didn't mean to. You wipe it away hurriedly with your jacket sleeve, smudging the crimson liquid onto the hunter green fabric. He stops suddenly, looking at you. "Fuck, sorry, Stu…didn't mean it," he slurs, bringing a finger to your lip gingerly, but you smack it away, turning and hugging your knees to yourself. That's when he wraps his arms around you, causing your entire frame to tense up. He releases you, getting up slowly and faltering a bit before walking out the door, slamming it shut, vibrations echoing through the walls.

You squeeze a few tears from your eyes, shaking your head so as much hair as possible covers your eyes. Standing up shakily, you walk to the bathroom, slowly locking the door behind you before removing your jacket and shirt to assess the damage. A lovely purple bruise has began to form, creeping across your ribs and side, and you avoid touching it, adjusting the binding around your chest ever so slightly before fully clothing yourself once more. The faucet drips lazily, as your mind races. Your lip is swollen as you open the medicine cabinet, and produce a small razor blade. Carefully shutting the small door of the cabinet, you peer at your face in the cracked mirror, gross from crying and trauma of the blow. The fabric of your sleeve yields willingly as you push it farther up your arm, exposing fair skin littered in pink scars of varying dimension and length before taking the blade and pulling it down the length of your inner arm again. It's only seconds before the blood surfaces, slowly oozing down the skin and onto the sink. After staring at your arm for a few minutes, you turn on the faucet with a creak, allowing the cold water to wash over the irritated skin, the blood disappearing down the drain in a faint pink stream. You apply a bandage to your arm, tug the sleeve down and walk out of the bathroom, resuming your position on the sofa. Your body sinks into it willingly, before you fish around in your jacket pocket and produce your iPod, burying the small earbuds into your ears and turning it on shuffle and allowing your tired eyes to drift shut.

And before you know it…

/

**My first Gorillaz fic ever. Sorry for the short chapter and cliffhanger .'' Please read and review. I hope to make it a bit happier in future chapters, just not yet. **


	2. 2) You've already fucked up Well, twice

**Hey, here's another chapter (already). 2 in one day—dang! Don't expect I'll keep that up XD. Anyway, enjoy~**

**Murdoc:**

You stumble slightly down the hallway, not even realizing how badly you've just fucked up. You mouth is dry and your lips are horribly chapped as you fumble in the back pocket of your distressed jeans to find the semi-crushed pack of Lucky Lungs cigarettes and lighter. The former is found with ease, however the ladder presents a certain roadblock to your de-stressing plans. You're sobering up rather quickly and you slowly slump to the ground, sitting with your back against the cracking wallpaper, head hanging in defeat. You awkwardly flip the pack open, staring at the last two cigarettes resting inside quietly. Uselessly. What's happening? You look around, a small panic overtaking you briefly. You flip the pack over and over in your hands, hoping for a miracle, but, as usual, one doesn't present itself readily. Not at all, you decide after spending some time just sitting there numbly. The hallway is rather dark, and you kind of squint to see if anyone else is around. You can hear assorted video game sounds somewhere in the distance and conclude that Noodle is busy playing video games. Judging by the sounds, it would appear she is currently playing some game in the genre of action and adventure. With Russ, maybe. Suddenly, your eyelids begin to droop and you attempt to rub at them with your hands, but give up, letting the pack drop to your lap against a small hole in your jeans. You fall asleep almost immediately.

/

Your nose twitches, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of nicotine. You have no idea how long you've been out, but one of your eyes opens a bit, and through fuzzy vision you can make out a figure sitting slouched a little farther from you. Your head is fucking _pounding_. Opening the other eye, you realize it's Faceache and he's got one of your last two cigarettes planted between his lips. You make a move to jolt up, but the pain in your muscles denies you, and you try to sit up slowly, rubbing at your eyes til you see stars. 2-D looks at you with those expressionless hollow eyes that are both your fault and your guilty pleasure. Because deep inside, you love that eyes like that. They're perfect. And you love it when he smiles, revealing the fact he's missing two of his front teeth, others discolored and jagged. But he isn't smiling, and now you're frowning a bit. "Stu…" you mutter, almost labored. He doesn't turn or move as to acknowledge you've spoken, just exhales lazy smoke rings, which you watch mesmerizingly float into the awkward air separating you two. "'Ey! Faceache..." you manage a bit louder this time, leaning toward him a bit. He doesn't budge, and you wipe your hands on your jeans without purpose, coughing a bit for no reason either. You notice the pack of cigarettes is laying near you on the splintering wooden floor and you reach out to grab it, before realizing it's actually a brand new pack. Your reddened eyes open a bit in shock as you pack your new smokes, tearing off the shrink-wrap plastic and removing the foil paper piece before plucking out a fresh cigarette. Fuck. You still don't have your sodding lighter, you realize, frowning and sighing simultaneously.

And that's when 2-D crawls over to you, taking his lighter and flicking the tiny wheels igniting the flame and holding it to the tip of your cigarette. It's color is so soothing, you almost forget what you're supposed to do. Remembering, you take a few puffs to light it, nodding before inhaling deeply, feeling the smoke fill your lungs, coating them with yet another layer of black toxic waste. You sit up more, crossing your legs, and sighing heavily, rubbing your head. Why is he upset with you this time? You scan his face in the dim light, noticing a bruise along his jaw, a cold sweat forming on your brow immediately. Remember what happened? You kind of do. Only a bit, really. "Can I…?" You say in an almost inaudible whisper, reaching out toward 2-D's face. He pulls back a bit, and you guess that it's probably instinctive by now. "I won't hurt ya, Stu, I'm sorry…" you look at him, then down, taking another drag of your cigarette, ashing it onto the floor below. You observe as the ashes flutter to the wood below peacefully. You exhale the smoke before drawing it back into your mouth and then exhaling out the side of your lips expertly. You watch as the smoke rises upward to the ceiling, the lamp littered with cobwebs. It should be cleaned, you think to yourself, and then that thought is over, and you're back to trying to figure out what happened last night.

2-D's cigarette cherry burns almost down to the filter before he decides this one's done. But instead of putting it out against his shoe or the ground, he crushes it right against the skin of his hand. You almost wince involuntarily, lunging forward and grabbing it out of his thin fingers. How can you do this now, when you couldn't just a few minutes ago? Adrenaline, you guess. He squeaks, drawing away, hugging his knees tightly to his chest, burying his face in his knees. His azure-blue bangs fall deadly forward, brushing against the fabric of his pants. He's shivering a bit, but you've already fucked up. Well, twice now. So instead of reaching out to offer comfort, you do the only thing you're good at doing—you stand up and leave.

**Sorry it's still sad and short. T^T But it needs to be for context. I'd love some feedback. xoxoxo**


	3. 3) In front of him in your underwear

**2-D:**

You're still shaking as you hear his footsteps fade into the distance. Soon, it becomes unbearably quiet and you pull out the small lighter from your back pocket, flicking it on and running your fingers back and forth through the flames. You contemplate what might happen if you just allow them to hover directly over the flame but decide against finding out. Slowly, you get up—your feet are a bit shaky from all the emotions, but you cross your arms firmly in front of your chest, pulling the hood of your jacket over your head to detach yourself from the outside world. As you arrive at your room, you turn the loose gold handle and kick it open gently with your shoe, a few flecks of white paint chipping off and fluttering to the ground soundlessly.

It's cold, so you decide to take a bath to defrost what feels like the cold, dead flesh of your imperfect being. Stepping into the bathroom, you kick off your red Converse, then sit down on the closed toilet lid to remove your socks, letting them fall balled-up to the cold tile floor. A mute sigh escapes your lips as you tug the sleeves of your jacket, slouching it off. You inspect the dried bloodstain on the sleeve, standing up and walking toward the sink, to whose constant dripping you have become steadily habituated. You turn on the water, allowing it to soak the offending spot of the sleeve, and taking a few pumps of soap, you get to work on removing the stain. The water is cold against your skin, making your fingers numb while you scrub absentmindedly. After a while, a slight tint remains, but you decide to call it good, turning off the water and wringing out the sleeve. After draping the jacket over the toilet seat for drying purposes, you continue stripping off your clothes.

Gingerly, you pull your shirt up over your head, tossing it to the floor and glancing in the cracked mirror of the medicine cabinet. The bruise you earned earlier has deepened to a sickly greenish purple, and is tender even to the slightest touch. Recalling your initial purpose for being in the restroom, you saunter over to the tub, turning on the hot water with a creak, holding your hand under the stream. At first, the water is cold, but slowly begins warming up and you proceed to finish undressing. Fumbling a bit with the belt, you undo it, remove your trousers, and they fall to the floor with a jarring "clink" as the belt buckle makes contact with the soulless tile. This causes you to flinch a bit. And this where you pause. Both now and _always_ while undergoing this ordeal. Your fingers find their way to the edge of the bandages biding your chest, flirting with the tan fabric, and finally finding its edge tucked expertly and securely. As it is freed, you bandage begins to unwind eagerly, and you help it along, winding it into a tight ball for safe keeping. The skin below is pink and irritated, a fibrous pattern etched into the tender flesh. Your mind is screaming as the bandage separates from your skin, exposing your flawed body cruelly to no one other than yourself. If only you could have a chest like all the other guys. But it seems that no matter how much you bind, those feminine features of your anatomy won't disappear. You've even tried _praying,_ alas all to naught.

You take care of the rest quickly, unwilling to acknowledge the dirty secret hidden from the public sphere. You drop your underwear to the floor, stepping out of it and sinking into the warm solace of the tub. Reaching for the bubble bath, the bottle is slippery and escapes your grasp, plunging into the depths of the bathwater. You fish it out, squirting a bit into the water and as it continues to fill the tub, bubbles overtake the surface, until you are hidden beneath their thick, foamy layer. Turning off the water, you sink back into the warm water, allowing your body to relax as much as possible. Closing your eyes, you gently touch the bruised spot on your side, teeth clenching a bit and one tear slowly rolling down your cheek. Your mind begins to wander. To Murdoc. And how he must never know about your condition. Running your fingers up and down your chest, you trace the curves that ought not be there at all, flitting over your sides, stomach and nipples. Your eyes remain closed, as one hand finds its way between your legs, quickly drawing back. You begin to feel tension returning and you quickly get up out of the tub, reaching desperately for the towel and dry yourself off hurriedly. The stark cold of the room's air shocks your skin, causing goosepimples, as your scramble into your underwear and reach for the bandages. With little conscious effort, you begin winding the fabric around and around your chest as tightly as possible, immediately restricting the proper function of your lungs. When you finish, you pull your shirt back on and walk out of the bathroom, climbing onto the couch. It's cold as your lower half still lacks trousers, but you don't care, curling up in yourself, the still-damp skin making contact with the ratty, deformed upholstery.

You wish he was here. And just like that, you're asleep again.

/

He walks in on you as you're freshening up, wrapping his strong arms around your tiny frame as your breath hitches from both worry and excitement. His hands begin groping your chest and you try to pull away, but then realize you're in a different body. One of an anatomically-correct male. And so you take a deep breath, grinning to yourself as his hands wander under your shirt caressing the tiny fleshy nubs of your nipples. You let out a stifled moan, pushing back against him eagerly, and he reciprocates, slowly grinding his hardening erection against your backside and running his long tongue over your neck. He bites down on the tender, translucent skin, summoning a bruise as you moan louder, mouth falling open as you reach forward to steady yourself against the sink. You feel a warm sensation building in your lower regions as he raises one hand to your mouth, pushing two of his long, bony fingers into your mouth. Your lips close around them eagerly, and your tongue snakes around the digits as you begin to suck slowly. He grinds against you increasingly, his other hand switching from its position on your chest down to the waistband of your trousers. They feel incredibly tight as he unhooks your belt, sliding the zipper down with ease. Then you feel a hand on your cheek. "Stu…" he says.

"Stu…"

"Ey, Faceache!"

Your eyes fly open. You look down. You're fully clothed and he's standing over you. Your heart leaps as you jolt up instinctively brushing his hand away and shielding your face.

It was a dream.

But this isn't. And you're sitting in front of him in your underwear.

**Hope you are all enjoying this~ hopefully will have another chapter done by tonight so you get more of Murdoc's POV. Read and review, as always!**


	4. 4) But instead of skin, they hit fabric

**I do apologize for not updating last night—it seems I got quite distracted learning new songs on my guitar .''' Anywho, here's the next chapter. Enjoy!**

**Murdoc:**

You frown as he draws his knees into his chest hurriedly. You're really not too sure what to do, but slowly, you sit down next to him on the sofa, the springs inside creaking slightly against the wooden frame. He looks at you nervously—spooked—as if he's seen a ghost. "Sorry to wake ya, Faceache," you say, grinning a bit and producing the pack of smokes he bought you, holding it out to him.

Silence.

He hesitates, slowly reaching out to take one cigarette, bringing it to his lips. You kind of smile, taking one for yourself, and flicking the tiny wheels of the lighter you finally found til the smoke sets the cherry glowing. Taking a few puffs, you hold out the lighter to him, and he takes it apprehensively with a shaky hand, lighting his own cigarette hurriedly, returning it to you and taking a deep drag.

You tilt your head back, releasing smoke, and lean against him ever so slightly, frowning at the cobweb in the corner of the room. His body stiffens a bit, but doesn't move away from you this time. Both shocked and content, you reach one hand over to rest it on his knee. His body freezes, and the only breaths he takes are those nicotine-laced inhales and sighs that fill the room with a smoky haze. You avoid eye contact and just sit there, finishing up your cigarette as he smokes his in silence. When it has burned down to the filter, you snuff it out in the small ashtray on the table, and he does the same. That's when you get another idea. Reaching in the inner pocket of your ratty leather jacket you fish out a tiny baggie and a pipe. Your fingers fumble with the zipper and you take some bud, packing it into the tiny glass pipe, blue with swirls of green and specs of yellow. Using the lighter again, you take a hit, exhaling smoke rings as your eyes begin to droop a bit, an incredible calm taking over your entire body.

You turn to 2-D, eyes questioning silently and he nods ever so gently. You hold out the pipe to him, and he takes the beautifully-crafted object and lighter, flicking the wheels to take a hit himself. He coughs a bit and you guess he doesn't do this as often as you. He smiles, shaking his head a bit and then slowly inhaling the smoke deeper before exhaling with a puff. He grins at you a bit—still tentative, but you can tell he's much more relaxed now. He hands the pipe back to you and your fingers brush, and you allow them to linger ever so slightly before drawing away to take another hit. As you feel the warm smoke enter your lungs comfortingly, you exhale both worry and apprehension. You hand the pipe to him once more and he mimics your action, smiling a bit stupidly, the gaps in his teeth teasing your heart.

And that's when he reaches one hand out to touch your arm, his cold fingers brushing against the rough skin in a slow, gentle, curious motion. Shifting his position, he crosses his legs and relaxes a bit against you. Your hand travels back to his leg, tracing tiny circles with the calloused pad of your index finger. Taking another hit from the pipe, you hold the smoke in your mouth, leaning close to his face, his _lips, _hoping he will welcome your advance. He does, his lips gradually falling open as if he's reading your mind. You bring your lips to his, releasing the smoke into his mouth and he exhales out of his nose leisurely, as his eyes flutter. You pull away briefly, your eyes getting lost in his pools of black, and you grin, but he wants more. He drapes his legs over yours and reaches up to run his slender fingers through your hair. You lean in again, slowly, pressing your lips to his so naturally and tease your long tongue against his lips. He responds by parting them, allowing your tongue entry. You set the pipe aside, running your hands up and down his legs as your tongue weaves together with his softly. You withdraw it slowly, tugging at his bottom lip with your teeth and smiling as your lips separate, a single string of saliva joining your mouths as you part. He reaches his other hand to touch your chest, the worn grey fabric soft to the touch as he begins to run his fingers up and down gently, almost mesmerized. Your eyes meet and he smiles, too. That's when he draws away a bit suddenly, leaning back against the sofa. You frown, a tad confused, but still flying high. Your body begins moving subconsciously and you straddle him. His body stiffens slightly, but he allows this. You lean down to kiss the soft, translucent skin on his neck, sucking at it slightly and he lets out a small sound. It turns you on, and suddenly you just _want _him, all of him. You nip at his neck as a small bruise begins to form, trailing your long tongue up and down sloppily. He tilts his head back, and lets out a moan. A _moan. _You can feel your trousers becoming uncomfortably tight as your hands reach for his chest, flirting with the edge of his shirt, then slowly slipping under it to his stomach. His breathing begins to get heavier and you slide your hands up.

But instead of meeting skin, they hit fabric. _Fabric?_ He jumps a bit, gasping and draws back—as much as he can—hugging himself tightly and putting his head down. You frown, trying to look at him, but he won't raise his head. And he's…_crying_? Ever so softly. You reach out to run your fingers through his hair, and he lifts his head, eyes scared and sad, tears streaming down his cheeks, as he hurriedly wipes them away with his sleeve. He's mumbling something—it sounds like an apology. You wipe a tear from under one eye as another comes tumbling down his other cheek, falling and making contact with the fabric of your jeans, the tiny wet stain spreading into the fibers of the deep navy blue. 'What happened?' you wonder, staring blankly, trying to regain your thoughts. But he won't draw his arms away from himself, and the tears don't stop.

Did you just fuck up _again?_

_Shit._

**Don't hate me, it's not a cliffhanger! I'll have another chapter up shortly~ in the meantime, review c:**


	5. 5) So You've been hiding this from me

**Greetings again! As promised, another chapter in the same day~ ****Before reading****, I need to place this WARNING here: This chapter is quite lengthy and includes material that may trigger some people. Without too many spoilers, it is psychologically heavy material, and there is detailed description of transgender body disphoria in the context of sexual situations that flirt with abuse and masochistic tendencies. It is emotionally intense, so if you feel that you may not be able to handle these themes, please refrain from reading. I did mention this at the beginning and in the fic description, but thought I'd reiterate since this chapter is particularly heavy in the inclusion of these triggering themes. **

**Now that I've successfully scared you (hopefully not; it's not that bad, in my opinion ^-^), enjoy!**

**2-D:**

His weight suddenly feels suffocating, and you just want him _gone. _

_No._

You just _want _him.

But you're so ashamed you could just die. Wishing you could shrink back into the sofa and disappear entirely; you gaze intently down, to where your underwear fits your anatomy improperly. You can't tell if he's deciphered the situation entirely, and you give up, your body limply sinking into the ratty, puke-green cushion. You just want to cut. You deserve it for lying. You feel dirty, vulnerable, and disgusting. A freak. Your head is spinning, and you've come off your high entirely, are have become completely and dreadfully aware of the situation at hand. This is why you shouldn't have allowed him to get so close. But it's your own bloody fault for being so sodding horny and needy. You shouldn't have touched him, inviting a sequence of events you'd rather CRL+Z. You figure you can't avoid him forever, as he isn't making a move to leave. You slowly lift your head, your hollow eyes meeting his. You open your mouth and make a small sound, as if you're going to speak, but no decipherable language comes forth. His eyes are dumbfounded and full of questions. You sigh heavily, the binding tightening with every breath, digging mercilessly into your flesh. You kind of want to _not _care. To _let _him rip it off. Just so you can fucking _breathe. _You shake your head violently at the thought, your azure hair hanging in dull, matted strands in front of your face.

That's when he reached out to touch your shoulder. It's a gentle touch, but you're still hesitant to accept it. Your eyes meet again, but this time he speaks: "Stu…what..? Are you okay? Did I hurt you _that _badly?"

_Oh._

He thinks the bandage is there to conceal the bruises he inflicted on you. You feel even more sick, your stomach doing summersaults within you. You feel empty and worthless. "No," you manage deadly, still looking into his eyes. Why is he still maintaining eye contact? You're a monster—those eyes terrify everyone! And yet he doesn't break the gaze. He frowns, his fingers making a move to the hem of your shirt. You're panicking, but there's nothing else to do. Just _let _him. You feel him lift the shirt up slowly, cold air making contact with the exposed skin of your abdomen. You involuntarily lift your arms up, allowing him to tug off the offending garment. The bruise from the other day has turned a deep purple, but is not covered by your bandages. He looks at them, then back at your eyes, as you feel your chest rise and fall in a nervous internal frenzy. "Stu, what's going on?" He immediately notices the cuts and scars littering your arms, and you try to hide them behind your back, shame flooding your entire being. You shake your head. No more tears. "Nothing, I'm fine. Sod off!" You try to sound strong and defiant, but your tone falters and your voice cracks awkwardly.

He traces the scars gently, his finger mapping out the complex pattern of scrapes, cuts, scars and bruises etched or inflicted onto your skin. "For the love of Sweet Satan! I know _you_ did this…why?" His tone attempts to be comforting, but it's also concerned and jarring. You also don't know how to respond, so you shrug minimally. "Nothing," you repeat. Not the answer he wanted.

**_THWOMP!_**

And you feel blood drip from your nose, and grab at it immediately, but it dribbles through your fingers, the crimson liquid staining _his _pants.

Fuck.

You're panicking. He's going to kill you this time, for sure! The entire scenario for your own funeral plays in your head as you desperately look around for a tissue, finding only your shirt. You reach out to pick it up from where it lays quietly and innocently on the sofa, but he grabs your arm. "No." His voice is firm. And he sounds _pissed. _

Then suddenly, that hostile emotion fades and he sighs heavily, taking the sleeve of his own shirt and wiping your nose caringly.

"Now tell me."

Shit. He's still at it. And you're still not willing to disclose.

"I a-already told y-you," you stutter. "I'm fine." You slouch hopelessly as you know he's not buying your bullshit. Not this time. "It's my shit to deal with, got it? And no bloody wanker's gonna _help_ me!" You're almost yelling, you realize, and cover your mouth with your hands.

He sighs again, touching his hand to your binding. "No, you aren't. What's _this?"_ he inquires firmly, tugging at the bandages. Your hands fly to his, stopping any further motions. "Don't," you state through gritted teeth. "It's my problem. I already told you, now sod-"

Too late. He's found the end piece and has begun to unwind the bandage. You gasp, covering your face, flushing a terribly unflattering shade of sickly green. You want to throw up.

"You…don't really want to do that, Muds. Please…stop…" you ask, half-heartedly. Though part of you—an increasing part—just wants him to _know_ already. Your heart races as the binding comes undone, the fabric eagerly unwinding to his gently coaxing as Murdoc's eyes begin to widen. You can breathe easier with every passing moment, but you feel a knot in your throat. As the last few inches of the bandage flutter off and fall limply down on your abdomen, your "chest" is revealed—or rather appendages you'd rather not acknowledge yourself. He just stares at them stupidly for a good few, nerve-racking minutes.

You _hate_ being stared at. Especially_ those_ parts, so you attempt to cover them with your hands, but he stops you, grabbing your wrists, and pinning them back on either side of you against the sofa cushion. You're panicking and you want to scream, but before you can, he leans in, crushing his lips against yours. You moan a bit, but melt into the kiss.

He pulls away for a second, looking at you. "So. You've been hiding this from me." He sounds disappointed.

"I'm a _boy!"_ You protest, in a pained scream, flailing uselessly against his strong grip.

"I know," he responds matter-of-factly.

You blink. "W-what?! But…I have…"

"A nice chest," he jumps in before you manage to finish. "Better than most blokes," he teases, smirking.

You blush, a wild shade of crimson overtaking your cheeks. "You're not…mad?"

He frowns. "Why would I be, Stu?"

"I lied to you…" you begin desperately, but he cuts you off, bringing his lips to yours again briefly before moving his ministrations to your neck, trailing small bites and kisses down to your collarbone. "Less talking, Faceache, more _fucking_." The word causes goosepimples to cover your skin, your legs spreading apart and wrapping around him. Then you pause a bit, voice resigned and serious. "You're not even gonna take me seriously, though, are ya? You're just gonna fuck me like some broad!" Tears spring forth from your eyes.

"No. I was planning on fucking you like a man. And hoping you'd take it like one. So what if the machinery's a bit different; the mechanics are essentially the same: my dick, your hole…" He smirks, the last few words dripping off his tongue lustfully, his one hand making contact with your chest, gently pinching the small pink nub of your nipple between his thumb and index finger. You moan, closing your eyes, and tilting your head back. "A-are you…sure? That your okay with fucking a man…" He doesn't stop what he's doing, and whispers lustfully into your ear, "Oh I'm more than _okay_ with it, Stuart. I've _always_ wanted to fuck you." He draws back to look at you, your face flushed a beautiful pink.

"And there's no reason think of yourself poorly. I never told ya this, Faceache, but men turn me on." He grins. "The thought of my dick inside you makes me _hard."_

_Fuck. FUCKFUCKFUCK. _

You're suddenly incredibly horny and you murmur something incomprehensible as one of his hands travels to the hem of your underwear, playing with the elastic, snapping it teasingly against your skin. You moan, tightening your legs around him in a needy want. "Muds…" you manage, breathlessly, and he knows. Slowly, his fingers slip under the elastic, and he's got one finger inside you—the spot you despise so much. But it feels so _good. _You gasp as he inserts another finger, scissoring the two digits deliciously.

"Take them off," you say quietly. He smiles, tugging your underwear off, then his own trousers as well, pushing you down onto the sofa so that he is on top of you, his lower half settled between your legs. He grinds his hips against you and you moan at the sensational friction, biting your lip hard enough to draw blood. He leans down to flick his tongue over it, lapping up the blood eagerly, as your hands reach around to grasp his back, your jagged nails digging into the flesh. He inserts his fingers into you once again, slowly pumping them in and out of you, before curling one around to your g-spot. Your entire body responds, back arching wildly. The room is spinning and your mind is racing, body beginning to perspire a bit as he works his magic touches on you. You buck your hips up against his hand, dripping and begging for further encroachment. His scent is an odd yet deliciously intoxicating mix of tobacco, alcohol, and a fading hint of weed. It sounds disgusting, but you're actually _enjoying _it.

And then you begin to feel him slipping his member inside you. You have no idea when he removed his underwear, but you feel a tight, uncomfortable pinching sensation in your nethers. You wince a bit, and he licks his fingers, savoring your wetness as his tongue winds around the digits erotically. He leans down to kiss you softly, and pulls away, whispering, "Just relax, Stu…"

"NO!" You practically scream.

You've feared him raping you so many times. Cruelly invading that taboo privacy you cherish. Or _cherished. _But in the moment, you _want_ that. "I'm not a sodding _bitch_!" You hiss, through gritted teeth. "Now, _fuck me." _Your eyes squeeze shut, a single tear trailing down your cheek as you feel a burning pain at your entrance. "_Hard."_

He pauses, panting. "Are..you sure.."

_As hard as you can!"_ you add desperately, smirking and raking your nails down his back some. He pauses, and then suddenly, you feel something tear inside you, a painful gasp escaping your lips as he rams into you mercilessly, again and again. It's finally gone. That mother_fucking_ part of you that you hated so much. It's over. It'll never hurt like this again, right? You feel your muscles tight around his dick, pumping it, in and out; in and out, with increasing speed. You feel something seeping out of you and between his grunts and your moans, you can't decide if it's cum or blood—or a mixture of both.

And then it begins to feel _good. _He has built up a steady rhythm, your bodies rocking back and forth in unison. You're both sweaty and panting. Nothing else exists.

And that's when it happens. Your mind goes blank and you see fucking _stars _as you tighten around him, his name escaping your lips in ecstasy.

Seconds later, he moans your name loudly and you feel something warm fill you.

**Hope ya liked! I'm really sorry if I triggered anyone, but I did warn you~ Reviews would be lovely!**


	6. 6) she—he—no, still she

**Firstly, I'd like to apologize for taking so long to update! I had a senior honors thesis presentation at university and I procrastinated on it as usual, severely dwarfing my allotted fic-writing time. Additionally, I hit a patch of internal debate as to where to take the story from there, and I think this route may be most believable/realistic. I'm trying to avoid cliché, happy, quickly gratifying resolutions. This chapter was quite difficult for me to write for personal reasons. Anyways, without any further ramblings, enjoy the chapter~**

**Murdoc:**

Your head is still spinning. It's not quite sure what to think. You wonder if he, well _she_ has told Russ or Noodle about this secret identity. You _did_ say you understood. You suddenly feel sick about lying. Because actually you have not fucking clue _how _to understand. She's obviously female wearing men's clothing. It's not a bad thing, but why hide it, you wonder. That experience felt like previous ones you've had with other women—not with a _man_ by any stretch of the imagination.

NO, you repeat to yourself. It isn't. Can't be. Or at least you can't let her find out what games your mind's playing. She's laying next to you, chest rising and falling as she's lost in a deep slumber. Her alabaster skin glows softly in the dim light as the sheets cling gently to the curve of her hip. You lean over to touch your long, slender finger to her shoulder, trailing it down along her arm, slowly burying your head in the crook of her neck, gently kissing the soft skin. It makes sense. Why you've been so attracted to 2-D, and realizing this, you almost breathe a silent sigh of relief.

She stirs, mumbling something as her eyes flutter open and she leans into your touch. You wrap your arms around her from behind, squeezing her breasts in your hands, pinching the nipples between your fingers as she gasps softly, her backside making contact with your dick as she—he—no, _she—_ snuggles closer to your body. Fuck. You're getting hard again. You trail kisses down her neck and back, sucking at the skin just hard enough to summon tiny bruises. You roll over so that you are on top of her, and her hollow eyes meet yours, a lovely blush creeping its way onto her cheeks as you bury your face between her breasts. They are small and slightly saggy—from all the binding, you presume, but still perfect in your eyes. She lets out a moan as she arches her back into your ministrations. Your kisses travel lower, meeting her bellybutton, then lower and lower. You spread her legs a bit wider with your hands, holding them open as your lips meet the inside of her thigh. She's wet and you switch one of your hands to between her legs, slowly and teasingly rubbing up and down her slightly swollen, pink folds. "F-uuuck…"she moans, looking down at you. You meet her eyes, licking your lips as you insert your middle finger into her dripping cunt slowly. Her eyes flutter shut and you bend down, pressing your lips to her clit and sucking at it gently before flicking your tongue out against the small fleshy nub. Her hands fly to bury themselves in your hair, pressing your head down a bit as she lets out a slow, loud moan. You insert another finger, curling them against her g-spot while continuing to run your tongue between her folds expertly. Her moans become more frequent and sound increasingly needy.

Your lips are moist with her fluids as you swirl your tongue around and around in circles, alternating between licking and sucking. You pause to tug at one of her folds with your teeth before diving back and humming against her skin. Her head is tilted back against the pillow, mouth open. "Muds…ahhhh," she moans, and you can tell she's getting close. "Fuck..I'm..gonna cum…"

You smile, capturing her clit in your lips and sucking at it while swirling your tongue as you add a third finger, applying even more pressure to her g-spot.

"Fuuuuuuuuck," she moans loudly, and climaxes, her legs wrapping around you and shaking a bit. You lean up again, sliding your body back up and you smile at her, your lips moist as you press them to hers, the tip of your throbbing cock against her wetness. She's breathing heavily, and your hands travel to her breasts again as you massage them in slow, circular motions, positioning yourself at her entrance once more, precum practically dripping into her needy cunt. She makes no protest as you slowly slide inside her, the tight muscles hugging your cock deliciously as you slide back out before ramming back inside her hot, moist, welcoming pussy. She moans again, nails raking across your back, raising angry red welts in their wake.

And then she starts talking.

Like, _dirty. _

_Hot, needy Porn star dirty. _

"Fuck, harder.

I want to feel you inside me.

Every inch, Muds.

Wreck me and fill me til I'm spilling over."

SHIT. You're so turned on. Your thrusts increase as she begs.

"…And then I'll kneel over your face as you lick up every last bit of it running down my legs."

You can't hold it any longer, and with one final, unexpected thrust, you ejaculate deep inside her as her muscles tighten around your before you pull out and finish onto her chest and face, ribbons of hot, white fluid landing on the lovely swells of her breasts and a bit landing on her lips and left cheek. She grins, licking it away.

And that's when you make the biggest** fucking** mistake of your entire life.

Leaning down, you kiss her cheek, saying, "You're such a lovely person, Faceache. And you're beautiful. You shouldn't be ashamed of being a woman."

**WHACK.**

Her—_his—no, still her_—brows furrow and her fist makes contact with your face.

And again.

And again.

Hard.

And just like that, she wraps the sheets around her and runs out the door sobbing.

Your own blood trickles from your nose, its crimson drops dripping onto the sheets below, mixing with the faint stains of hers from when you took a piece of her that she—he—no, still _she_ will never get back.

**Shit, it's sad again. But I just wanted to make it realistic. From personal experience, I am painfully aware of just how difficult it is for people to make the mental shift between genders when you're trans*. They do NOT automatically change your pronouns or in this case, adjust to the new reality. It WILL get happier, I promise. Reviews would be lovely, please! Thanks, and til next update~**

**-Robin**


	7. 7) somewhere as disgusting as you feel

**OH MAN—I feel AWEFUL for leaving you hanging for so long. Here, have a chapter! **

**Warning: This contains self-harm, drugs, and rape. Thought I should let you know.**

**2-D:**

Your mind is screaming.

Your vision is blurry as you clutch the sheets around you and run desperately to anywhere you'll find clothes.

You feel dirty, disgusting, and worthless. As you reach the room, it is empty and you slowly walk in, legs shaky. Making your way into the bathroom, you pause only briefly to take a change of clothes from the dresser, not paying too much attention to the exact selection. Closing the bathroom door behind you, you make sure to turn the lock as to avoid any unwanted interruption. You turn to the cracked mirror on the medicine cabinet. Your skin looks flushed, tears staining your cheeks rudely. You reach out with a trembling hand, opening the creaky door, and finding a fresh razor blade, closing the tiny doors again and walking toward the tub. You let the sheets fall to the floor, and avoid looking at your body at all as you turn on the water, and step into the tub.

As the water fills the tub, you take the tiny, sharp blade, examining it in the dull light. It glints a lovely smile at you, beckoning with its mesmerizing beauty. Resting your arm against the side of the tub, you trace the intricate pattern of scars along you inner forearm. Some are raised; some are old, some fresh and still irritated. Taking the blade, you sigh, pressing its sharp edge into the skin. It cuts through the flesh like butter, burying itself deeper as you run it down and around in a steady motion. You are writing—much like a calligrapher—as the crimson liquid springs forth and begins to ooze lazily down your alabaster skin. First the "b" followed by the "o" and finally ending with the "y," you trail the blade around and around, leaving these angry red letters in its wake. You set the blade down on the edge of the tub, turning off the water as drops of crimson fluid fall into it, spreading their angry yet beautiful color as soon as contact is made with the water's surface. One drop, then another hits the water, staining it immediately. You press the palm of your hand against the fresh wound, smudging the blood around on your arm before allowing it to fall into the tub, a bloody pool spreading from its source into the surrounding water. The bleeding takes a while to slow down, as you watch the color overtake that of the normal bath water.

After a while, the water becomes grossly cold, and you stand up in the tub. You may not be that clean though, so you take some body wash, sloppily attempting to wash off – even if just a bit—rinsing off with some fresh water, and then stepping out of the tub. Undoing the plug, you watch the bloody water drain away slowly, as you take a fresh towel to dry off, not caring that year arm will stain it rudely, the blood eagerly sinking into the fibers. You put on your boxers, then your binding. It's become second nature to you, and it all happens too fast to dwell on it. Returning your attentions to your wrecked arm, you fish out some bandages from the medicine cabinet, wrapping them around and around, and securing the end in place with medical tape before slipping into your shirt, pants, and hoodie. You briefly glance at yourself in the mirror. There are visible bruises and bites littering your neck and jaw line, and you shudder visibly, turning off the light and shutting the door behind you.

You decide to go somewhere as worthless, disgusting, and desperate as you feel: the club.

You _never_ go to _clubs_. Pubs, perhaps, but not clubs. The amount of unhealthy, dangerous shit that goes down in there simply terrifies you—or at least used to. But life couldn't get much worse, you decide, and disappear out the front door and into the cold dark streets of the town.

You can see your breath. Shoving your hands deep into the pockets of your jacket, you locate your pack of cigarettes and lighter, immediately plucking out one, and letting it hang on your lip as you put the pack away. Lifting the lighter up to its tip, you flick the tiny wheels as the little flame ignites. A couple puffs, and your cigarette is lit, the comforting nicotine-laced smoke filling your lungs and the surrounding air. You exhale a pained sigh as you make your way through dark streets. Litter lines the edges of the sidewalk, stray cats' eyes meeting yours as they flit around the rotting contents of trashcans, attempting to salvage those pieces of trash suitable for a less-than-scrumptious meal. The smell of gasoline, urine, and vomit tingles your nostrils, as you arrive at the tiny club, presenting your ID before entering. The bouncer doesn't give you a second glance and you enter the smoky doorway into the seizure-inducing neon lights brightening up the dance floor to spasmodic pulsating beats.

Every kind of person is here. As your eyes dart around the hazy room, it reeks of cigarettes and alcohol. The desperados slouch at the bar, staring dully at the remainders of their drink, while others are busy chatting up some stranger in hopes of a quick fling. On the dance floor, sweaty bodies contort into ridiculous motions attempting to attract or keep the attention of one already there. You saunter over to the bar, crushing your cigarette into the ashtray, as you order a shot of tequila. You are more than aware that the stuff fucks with you unbelievably, but tonight, you aren't giving too many fucks. You tilt the tiny glass back against your lips, downing it all in one go. Then another. And yet another.

Through slightly blurry eyes, someone appears to be talking to you. His voice sounds a bit distant, but you suspect that's just the alcohol kicking in hard. He's touching your arm, and you catch his eyes, smiling stupidly. He asks you something and you nod, even though you have no idea what he just said. He takes you by the arm, and you stumble off the bar stool, grabbing him awkwardly. Before you know it, you're in a puce-colored bathroom stall, paint chipping off the walls, graffiti littering the walls. Penises adorn the bricks, as do variations of insults, curses, and lewd language. The door of the stall is sort of hanging, but it locks weirdly, and the guy pulls out a small baggie filled with white powder. You don't really do drugs other than weed, but clearly, you aren't thinking straight. Maybe it's the alcohol, maybe the depression. Maybe both. He gestures for you to hold out your arm, so you shove the sleeve up on the arm without any cuts. He fumbles with the tiny Ziploc a bit before opening it and pouring out some of the powder on your arm. He then produces a razor blade—an object friendly and familiar to you, and separates the powder into small rows on your arm, the blade nicking at your skin a bit, but you don't flinch really. He nods, and you lean your head down to snort up the first row quickly, then the second. You look up at him and he smiles, nodding again and gesturing to the last bit of powder, clinging to the skin of your arm. You snort it a bit too eagerly and feel something oozing from your nose. You wipe the same arm, still covered with remnants of the powder, across your nose, and stare at it. Blood. You're grinning a bit as the drug begins to kick in, and you feel his arm snake around your waist, pulling you toward him. He reeks of alcohol and vomit, but you're way too drunk to notice, and then your lips are crashed together in an awkward exchange of slobber. His arms reach to grab your ass as he grinds his hard on against you, and you're suddenly beginning to feel a bit jittery, yet weirdly…sleepy? You can feel something's happening, but you aren't sure what.

Your stomach turns and you instinctively turn to the toilet, vomiting up god knows what. That's when you feel him wrap his arms around you from behind, pressing your bodies together. You're breath heaves, and you can feel him unzipping your trousers and shoving your pants down as the cool air hits your bare skin. You're shaky on your legs and you begin to panic. He senses this and shoves several of his fingers into your mouth roughly. You gag as you feel him enter you from behind. The pain in sharp, and your eyes widen in terror as tears stream down your cheeks. You're too weak to scream. Maybe it's the odd concoction of drugs and alcohol.

And then nothing.

It's dark.

**I don't know why I'm so mean to the characters .'' I promise this ****_will _****get happier! Read and review~**


	8. 8) Fuck Leave? Where?

**I feel like I'm always apologizing for taking so long to update .'' Sorry for any typos in advance, school has been hell and I haven't gotten a beta reader blah blah I know I'm bad. T.T Well, here tis. Read and review~**

**Murdoc:**

The telly drones on monotonously as you sit on the bed, bottle of whiskey in hand. You haven't bothered to clean up the mess, nor have you bothered to shower. Which you probably should since you've been too lazy for the last couple days. Most people would find that unbearable and disgusting, but somehow it doesn't bother you at all. They can sod off. Wankers.

You reach over to the nightstand, picking up your pack of cigarettes. Its _that _pack, you realize, turning it over and over in your hands before flipping open the top and plucking one out. You toss the pack onto the bed beside you without closing it. You search for a lighter, but none is to be found.

It's like déjà vu all over again. Your memory takes you back to when he—yes _he_—offered you his lighter. After you'd beat the shit out of him. In this memory he is very much male. Well, in all other memories except, _that one._ Your brain is confused and distraught. But whatever, where is the little shit anyway? Kinda disappeared. He's been gone for quite a while, you decide. You wonder if any of the others have seen him, so you make your mind up to check. Groaning, you get up from the bed, tucking the cigarette you have failed to light behind your left ear, before finding your pants and tugging them on, not bothering to button them before opening the door with a creak as you slip into the hallway.

It's only a few steps to Noodle's room, so you make up your mind to check there first. You don't knock, but luckily she's just sitting on the floor nomming some snacks and playing Assassin's creed. You attempt a smile. "Ey, you seen 'D?" She looks up and shakes her head. "No. Last I hear he was with you. But I see him leave I think, now that you say something…"

Fuck.

Leave?

Where?

"Great," you mutter sarcastically through gritted teeth. Noodle tilts her head, the hair in her pigtails flopping to one side.

"Why you worry?" She asks. Her tone sounds confused. Fuck, do you really have to explain? Maybe something vague…

"Uh, cos yea, we were chillin' and he all up and left…" Your attempt at a lie is so pathetic.

She raises an eyebrow. Clearly _not _buying it. Maybe she knows something.

"I think no," she says blankly, shaking her head, and continuing to press the buttons on the controller.

Okay, something's up. And you intend to figure out what it is. "Hey don't fuck around. What's goin' on here?!" you say a bit too loudly. Noodle seems unphased. Oh shit. Is everyone just used to your yelling? It's a few minutes before she responds. "I not sure. But he goes out. Not to be near you." She goes back to playing the game, assorted stabbing sounds echoing amidst the walls.

Well then. She knew he was going out. But why didn't she stop him? You glance at her, and suddenly notice she's…_crying. _Crap. Was it something you said or did something happen that she isn't telling you? You sit down next to her, draping your arm around her shoulder, and leaning in to whisper, "Hey, what is it? Where's Stu?" She shakes her head, dropping the controller to the ground and wiping the tears away hurriedly. You gently hug her, being as careful as possible. You're still under the influence of alcohol, so you don't exactly trust yourself entirely. But you're sober enough to know something is going on.

She turns to you. She looks scared. Her lips tremble as they spill the softest of words, "I should have helped him. Hold him back. Not go. He in trouble maybe because me." You look down, panic creeping in. You grab her shoulders, accidently knocking her down onto the floor as you hover above her.

"WHERE. Where is he?" Your voice is low and tense.

Noodle closes her eyes and shakes her head. You realize this is quite a compromising position so you back up a bit, sitting back on your knees. "You got a light?" You decide to ask. She rolls her eyes, pulling out some matches, striking one as you place the cigarette you've been keeping from its perch behind your ear to between your lips. Bringing the tiny flame to the tip of it, you puff it a few times and then take a deep drag. Fuck. You really want to get stoned right now. But this will do for the current moment. Tilting your head back, you exhale the stream of smoke upward toward the ceiling before making eye contact with the guitarist. She sighs before responding.

"Club. Not sure though. You know where he like to go?" She tilts her head slightly, awaiting an answer. You don't have one, sadly. Your plan, though? Search every club in the goddamn city.

"Let's get goin' then, " you say blankly, standing up, floor creaking beneath you. She does the same, slipping on some shoes and a bright red jacket.

And just like that, the two of you are out the door.

**Read and review, and Happy Holidays! 3**


	9. 9) Mumble out of one side of your mouth

Guess who's finally back.

Damn.

That took waaay too long. I really sincerely apologize, but I needed to take a break for personal reasons. Luckily, things have stabilized for the most part, so I'm able to get back to writing (finally!). I'll give you all a slightly longer chapter than usual for putting up with the wait. Enjoy, my lovlies!~

2-D:

Ouch.

As your eyes slowly drift open, you realize your head is resting against the toilet seat. That's _disgusting._ What happened? Your legs and body in general is covered in bruises, and everything _down there_ feels wrong. It feels like something tore your soul out, yanked away any strings of consciousness keeping it in your body, and flushed it down the toilet, leaving you here—an empty shell. Lifting your head from the toilet seat, you rub your eyes and cough for a few seconds before assessing the damage. Your neck feels tender as you trace over the skin with the tips of your fingers, letting out a small yelp as they pass over a particularly tender spot. Drawing your fingers, you notice blood.

Fuck.

You sit back on the cold tile floor, and slowly reach down with shaking hands to pull your pants back up. Your hips are badly bruised and everything just _hurts. _It smells foul in here, and you dry heave into the toilet, gasping for breath. Checking to make sure all of your clothing is in place, you slowly stand up, steadying yourself against the side of the stall, your hand touching a piece of half-dried gum that quickly becomes one with your hand in a sloppy, sickening squish. The smell of Bubblemint and piss fill the air, and you draw your hand away, a string of gum still connecting it to that nasty stall door. Opening the latch, you push it open with your body and walk out, hunching your shoulders in both shame and resignation. Your binding feels loose, but you don't care, shoving your hands into the pockets of your jacket and yanking it down somewhat. Walking over to the sinks, you lean against the edge of one, lifting your head up to take a look into the mirror, which seems to have been spat on. Your eyes are even more sunken than usual, and your lip is swollen around where it is painfully split. The blood has dried into a decent crust, some still oozing out of the center of the cut. You touch it gingerly, wincing as you smear the blood with your finger. Your neck is covered in hickies, one of which appears to be fucking bleeding for fuck's sake. You reach out and turn on the water, feeling it wash over your hands, and splashing it over your face, wiping the blood from your lip carefully. When you finish, you turn off the water, pulling two paper towels from the dispenser, drying off, and tossing then in the bin. Taking one last look at yourself in the mirror, you shake your hair so it falls in front of your eyes and walk out.

The club is still loud as fuck. The strobe lights flash, and you squint your eyes, wanting more than anything to just _get the fuck out._ Sweaty bodies grind together on the dance floor, and you wonder how long you've been passed out for.

What the fuck even happened?

Looking for the exit in a private, internal frenzy, you finally notice the glaring red sign, walking out the door and into the street. The drugs and adrenaline rush have left you with a pounded headache and you don't even want to think about what had transpired. What time is it, you wonder, desperately searching for any sort of clock. Nothing seems to be open, so you deduce that it must be fairly late at night.

Your mind begins racing, and you're becoming paranoid. There's no one around; it's too quiet. You _really_ want a cigarette.

And you kinda want Muds.

NO.

You shake your head and continue walking, the cold air invading your lungs with every breath. It burns and your chest feels more crushed than normally. You wish you could just ditch the binding, but that's no possible. You look to your right, suddenly noticing you are near a park. There are benches. Really, you're just really tired and want to _sleep. _It's dark, but the dim street lamps illuminate a small bench where someone appears to be sitting. He looks familiar almost. Almost too much.

Almost like.

Russell.

You squint, taking a few steps closer to him. It _is _Russell. You cannot explain the relief and joy you suddenly feel, but you are nervous and scared at the same time. Because you look like a train wreck and no amount of dim lighting will hide that. You decide to approach the bench from the opposite side, and you sit down on the chipped, white slats slowly, crossing your arms across your chest. You begin to trace circles in the dirt with your shoe before asking lowly, "got a smoke at all?"

At first, he doesn't recognize you but nods, grunting something, and pulls one out of his pack quite amiably, handing it to you. That's when his eyebrows furrow.

"D? That you?" His tone is concerned.

You avoid looking at him, as this will only draw attention to how beat up your face looks. "Yea…." You manage softly. But he can tell something's up. He frowns, turning his attention toward you completely. He clearly notices your less-than-idea state.

"Dude, what's happened to you?"

You shift nervously, snatching the cigarette from him, a little annoyed at the question. And then you realize you don't actually have a lighter. This night—or however long it's been—has fucked you over in more ways than one. You sigh, turning toward him, still not looking up to meet his eyes.

"I don't even know," you manage meekly, placing the cigarette between your lips. "Got a light?" You kind of mumble out of one side of your mouth. You're guessing he's noticed your busted lip. You can just _feel _his eyes studying you. Sighing, you look up at him slowly.

"Jesus, 'D!" He almost shouts, and you cover your ears instinctively.

"Sorry," he says, softer this time, carefully studying your face more. "You don't look so good, man. Who did this to you?" He hands you the lighter.

You take the lighter, flicking the tiny wheels nervously lighting the cigarette and inhaling deeply, savoring the smoke for a few seconds before exhaling an upward stream of smoke into the cold, night air. It's taking a toll on your lungs, however, and you cough violently for what seems like a minute, before turning back to Russell.

"Um, I'll be ok, I just need to rest and things…" your voice trails off. You really don't want to go back there. Even mentally. Then again, you aren't entirely sure of what even happened. Which is both frightening and embarrassing simultaneously. You bring the cigarette back up to your cracked, chapped, and bleeding lips, sucking its chemical-laced smoke into your lungs before tilting your head back to exhale a steady stream of smoke. Russell is still studying your face. It is making you uncomfortable.

"Russell! 'D!" Someone is yelling in the distance.

Slowly, you turn your head, the soreness of your abused neck radiating throughout your entire body.

Hope you enjoyed! Please review, as always, and I promise to keep writing. Next chapter shall be happier~ ^-^


End file.
